What was I to do? I did it. I got out, said “Thank you,” and “Good night,” and closed the car door. She drove off at once, retracing the lakeside route we had just traveled. I stood there and watched the dark blotch of the coupe until she again switched on the lights as she neared the highway.
At that moment the little guy who sits behind my eyes and watches over me said, “Do something, Charles Home. Somebody is looking at you.”
A lot could depend on what I did next. I was an outsider, unaware and unprepared for the next step — or what was expected of the next step.
The Chinese doll had left me there because she believed I knew what to do. The somebody who was watching me was waiting for me to do it. There was only the barn, which was the lock, the key and the riddle. I knew from experience it was smarter to force the key for any lock to come to me. Much smarter than to display my ignorance by fussing with the lock. And safer. Like the old stall of escaping undue attention by inviting ordinary attention.
I put my hands in my pocket, turned towards the barn and took a single step, scraping the snow off a patch of ground with my shoe. At the same time I pulled one hand out of my pocket and deliberately dropped my keyring on the ground. The keys made a pleasing jangle as they struck the hard-packed earth. I swore at them softly and sincerely.
A door gently creaked and the lock began to open.
Dropping swiftly to one knee I pulled out a packet of matches and lit one, cupping my hands over the flame to hide the flare from my face and direct the light towards the ground.
Instantly a voice hissed from the shack doorway.
“Put out that light, Jack!”
I did, and could have gratefully kissed the owner of the voice.
I complained to it, “I’ve dropped my keys.”
“Wait a minute, Jack. Wait.”
This time the voice was milder, more natural. I waited. Someone was kneeling beside me. The someone flashed and just as carefully shielded from his face a narrow-beamed pen light onto the snow. He kept his other hand out of sight. It would be in his coat pocket, clutching something nasty.
“Where?” he asked me.
“Over here. Move your foot. There... there they are.” I snatched them up and the flashlight blacked out. We got up and he followed me into the shack. I stopped just inside the door while he closed it behind us and snapped on an overhead light.
The shack was light-tight and several degrees warmer. There was another door leading into the barn but it wasn’t open yet.
The man facing me, searching my face and my clothes, was a kindly appearing middle-aged gent with slowly silvering hair. He wore crinkles around pale blue eyes, the kind of crinkles you find on people who have lived in California or Florida; sun crinkles. A smile played just behind his lips. He was cleanly shaven and nicely dressed. He reminded me of the fatherly, benevolent characters you see playing judges and senators in the movies.
The nice old gentleman examined me all over. The smile hiding behind his lips deepened and almost showed itself. I wanted to grin back at him.
“Jack, Jack—” He shook his dignified head slowly and in a sad, reproving manner. “You know you can’t take that gun in there with you.”
He was good, that fellow. Tell that to a dozen people who might be carrying guns and ten of them will admit that they are, swallowing the accusation whole. This man wasn’t merely firing arrows into the air on the off-chance he might hit a duck. He knew where the duck was hiding. He was looking at my shoulder, looking through my overcoat.
“Sure thing, Judge,” I covered up with a ready grin. “But I couldn’t leave it at home, now could I? Want to give me a hat check?” I unbuttoned the coat and handed him the gun.
His blue eyes sparkled. He hefted it, examined it, balanced it, squinted along the barrel and turned an admiring eye on me.
“That’s a mighty fine item, Jack, a mighty fine item.”
“I take it you like guns.”
“Own a beautiful collection of them, Jack, beautiful. One of my items once belonged to William Bonny.”
“Bonny? Who’s he?”
“Billy the Kid, Jack. The Kid himself. I don’t believe Pat Garrett ever caught up with him, Jack. The biographer didn’t do the boy justice.” He balanced the gun again with a skilled hand. “A mighty fine item. Made in Sweden.”
“And a Christmas present,” I informed him.
“It’ll be here when you’re ready to go back downtown, Jack. I won’t forget you.”
“As you say, Judge.” I took off my overcoat and draped it over my arm. Acting on the following thought, I reached in and unbuckled the holster and handed that to him, too. The small bulge in the suit was gone.
The Judge gave out with a full smile and pushed open the inner door for me. I stepped into a well-lit, tastefully decorated gambling room about one-third filled with men. And completely apologized to the doll for my thoughts.
No one paid any attention to me.
